


A Convenient Fiction

by cycnus39



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cycnus39/pseuds/cycnus39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a while before ‘A Study In Pink’ and endeavours to explain why Sherlock is so distrusting of Mycroft despite the obvious care and protection Mycroft affords him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Convenient Fiction

He was dozing off in his chair beside the fireplace when the desk phone rang, startling him so the brandy glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor.

Damn!

“Well, these trousers are finished,” he sighed down at the tiny glints of brandy glass in the material below his left knee -- but still the phone kept ringing.

Rolling his eyes, he got to his feet, stepped smartly across to the desk and picked the telephone receiver up from its cradle.

“Yes?”

“It’s Mills at the gate, sir. We’ve had a breach.”

“Any affiliations?”

“You could say that, sir. It’s your brother.”

His eyes snapped closed and he held his breath.

He knew this day was coming but this was too soon, far too soon.

“Sir?”

“Where is he?”

“In the gatehouse. We had to confine him to one of the cells.”

“Very well. I shall be over directly.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, sir. He--”

“I don’t employ you for your wisdom, Colonel,” he snapped back then hung up.

That was a mistake. The last thing he needed was Mills shifting loyalties. Damn Sherlock for forcing his hand! If Sherlock could only-- No. He knew this day was coming. Sir John was the one forcing his hand.

There was never a strategy to deal with Sherlock so he didn’t even try to think up one, just walked out of the room, out of the house, and got the car to the gatehouse.

It was raining.

Of course it was raining.

As he climbed out of the car, Mills stepped out into the rain from the portico and saluted him as respectfully as always.

“As I was attempting to communicate, sir,” Mills began, his dark and usually stern gaze full of sympathetic understanding, “Mr Holmes became very violent upon apprehension and had to be secured for his own safety.”

“I understand, Jason, thank you,” he replied, reaching up to pat Mills’ broad shoulder affectionately as they stepped into the portico together. “Now, if you’d be so kind, please turn off the gatehouse’s internal security and withdraw your men to the perimeter.”

“Immediately, sir, but please allow me to accompany you down to the cells while you ascertain if medical assistance will be required.”

He raised an eyebrow at Mills. “Was my brother harmed during his escapade?”

“No, sir.” Mills shook his head firmly. “The medical assistance was required before he was apprehended and his distress is not of a physical nature.”

“I see. Please carry out my orders as instructed and then return to your duties.”

Mills looked as if he was going to argue but then just gave him a curt salute and began bellowing orders.

Good man, Mills. Loyal man.

At least for now.

As soon as the gatehouse had emptied of the security staff, he entered, heard Sherlock shouting and screaming and battering his cell’s single metal chair against the walls, the door, the reinforced two-way mirror. No wonder they all thought his little brother was an unstable madman.

Mycroft.

It was his name Sherlock was shouting, screaming, over and over again.

Nothing else.

Just Mycroft.

For a moment, there was a flicker of fear. Perhaps Sherlock had finally gone over the edge, perhaps Sherlock was going to beat his brains in with that metal chair and they’d both end on the floor of cell number eight.

But no. His little brother would never hurt him.

At least not like that.

His moment of uncertainty past, he walked down the corridor and used his swipe card to access the holding area, walked past cells four and six before using his card to open cell number eight.

As soon as Sherlock saw him in the doorway, he stopped shouting, dropped the chair and retreated to the opposite corner of the cell, sat down on the floor holding his knees tightly against his chest, glaring balefully.

“I would have sat in the chair but it seems you have quite ruined it,” he told his sullen little brother as he walked into the cell toeing a bent chair leg out of his path. “So you’ll have to forgive me for standing.”

“You knew,” Sherlock snarled back at him. “You knew all along.”

“Come, come, little brother, anyone who put any thought at all into it would have known all along.”

“It’s Father again.” Sherlock looked away from him, haunted and fidgety. “It’s always Father again.”

He didn’t want to crouch down so close to Sherlock but the situation clearly called for it and his trousers were already finished.

“What did you do, Sherlock? Did you--”

“I DID WHAT YOU ASKED!” Sherlock bellowed, lunging forwards.

Overbalancing in surprise, he fell back, but there was no need to raise a hand to defend himself because Sherlock was already pacing the other side of the cell, shouting again.

“I was blind. God, I was so blind! All I saw was the puzzle and you knew that. You knew that, Mycroft!”

“What did you expect was going to happen, Sherlock?” he growled as he got to his feet, pulled his handkerchief out of his top jacket pocket and wiped the smell of industrial disinfectant off his hands as best he could. “Did you think the world would just tell you how clever you are and then move on as if nothing had changed? Of course it was going to be used. That’s why--”

“YOU USED ME!” Sherlock shouted in his face. “I trusted you and you used me.”

“Oh, please! It had nothing to do with trust. You wanted to prove how oh so bright you are and I indulged you. I let you solve the unsolvable, little brother. Rejoice.”

“Rejoice? People died. Hundreds of people--”

“Die every day. The deaths on this occasion were regrettable but hardly unforeseen given the nature of your--”

“I didn’t foresee it!”

“Of course you didn’t because you only see yourself, Sherlock! Oh how it must be to live in a world where everything exists merely to entertain you.”

Sherlock blinked at him then stumbled back against the wall, crumpled to the floor. “I didn’t know you knew, that Mummy knew. I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He wasn’t going to crouch again, instead reached down and helped Sherlock back to his feet, but Sherlock didn’t want to stand, didn’t want to walk, and he ended having to half carry him out of the gatehouse and back to the car.

“Any further orders, sir?” Mills asked from the rain as he settled Sherlock into the backseat.

“No, Colonel. Thank you,” he retuned before taking his brother back to the house.

He was helping Sherlock up the stairs to the second spare bedroom when his phone began buzzing in his trouser pocket, vibrating against his thigh insistently.

Sir John.

He knew it was Sir John.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Sherlock murmured against his shoulder.

“No,” he responded, pulling Sherlock up the last step then turning to walk him down the hallway.

“That’s not like you.”

“No,” he agreed, “it isn’t.”

Sherlock didn’t comment on the phone again and it had stopped buzzing by the time they reached the bedroom doorway.

“How many?” Sherlock asked as he helped him across to the bed. “How many exactly?”

He sat Sherlock down on the mattress with a sigh. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Two hundred and twenty-one,” he answered.

Sherlock didn’t respond so he knelt and took off Sherlock’s shoes, placed them neatly under the bed, then took off Sherlock’s wet jacket, hung it up on the back of the door.

He expected Sherlock to then get into bed himself, but Sherlock stayed seated on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the carpet between them.

“What did you take, Sherlock?” he asked softly, moving over to stand beside his brother. “Shouldn’t you sleep?” he continued, laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently stroking the slightly damp cotton under his fingers.

“I...I don’t know if I can.”

The desolation in Sherlock’s voice was almost his undoing and he was almost back in that room with their silently weeping mother. But he was never going to go there again.

“Of course you can.” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, eased Sherlock down onto the mattress and tucked him into bed. “Just close your eyes and count the stones down to the duck pond from the third step on the right hand path.”

He watched Sherlock close his eyes, could almost see their childhood garden in his own mind’s eye as he silently stepped out into the hall to call Sir John.

“Refusing my calls, Mycroft?” Sir John growled upon answering. “Your feet aren’t that far under the table yet.”

“Apologies,” he replied smoothly. “I was otherwise occupied.”

“Yes, with your brother I heard. Time to nip that one in the bud, don’t you think?”

“No. That was not our agreement, Sir John.”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft, but it was. We agreed that if your brother can’t function within the fold, and this little show proves he can’t, then he can’t be allowed to function at all.”

“That was not my understanding.”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about your understanding! Your brother is a liability and it’s time for you to fulfil your commitment in dealing with him.”

“I disagree.”

“YOU DISAGREE?” Sir John bellowed at him. “You’re speaking to your one and only superior, Holmes. Remember that.”

“I do, constantly, and, at the risk of sounding a tad conceited, my memory has always been superlative.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I recall those meetings regarding my brother, Sir John, and I recall exactly what I said.”

“You said if your brother ever became a problem that you’d take whatever measures necessary to resolve that problem.”

“I beg to differ but I said if you ever thought my brother was a problem then I’d take whatever measures necessary to resolve that issue.”

“You’re bothering me with semantics?”

“No, Sir John, I’m entreating you to listen. If you had you would have realised that my brother is and always will remain my brother. The problem I was referring to was you.”

“You’re threatening me?” Sir John guffawed.

“Not at all,” he replied evenly. “Let us just say that I am not afflicted by the myopia suffered by my predecessor and suggest you have no wish to share his fate.”

There was a gust of breath and a thumping noise as Sir John seemed to collapse into a chair. “The Greenwich files?”

“In a safe place, I assure you, and likely to remain there providing you take my advice and retire to that nice little country estate you dear wife ‘inherited’ last year.”

“You want me to--”

“There’s no rush. Next month at your birthday party will do for the official announcement but you’ll understand if I ask you to take a leave of absence until then.”

“You can’t--”

“I’m afraid I already have. Goodbye, Sir John.”

He ended the call and took a deep breath, leaned against the wall as he breathed it out.

There.

Done.

Sir John wouldn’t know he was beaten yet, would try to call in favours from George Calhoun, Forrester and maybe even Llywelyn-Jones himself, but it would all be for nought. Sir John had lost the war without setting foot on the battlefield.

Slipping his phone back into his trouser pocket, he walked back into the second spare bedroom, noted that Sherlock had indeed fallen asleep.

“Good night, little brother,” he said softly then closed the door and went to bed.

 

 

End


End file.
